


Like a Magnet

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Simmons has to find a way to get Grif off him without waking him up and before Donut comes with his camera.





	

The unthinkable thing had happened.

Grif could not sleep.

And, strangely enough, that turned out to be a bigger problem for Simmons than for the lazy soldier himself. Not that Grif was not bothered by the lack of rest – in fact, he was sure he was pretty much close to dying.

Unfortunately for Simmons, Grif was not quiet about his struggles. If he wasn’t bitching, he was moaning. If he wasn’t sniffling, he was coughing up his lungs. Well, Simmons’ lungs. Technically.

It should not surprise them that they had become vulnerable to sickness after their surgeries, but when Grif had come down with something, he had fucking _crashed_ hard and quickly, and one morning Simmons had gone to wake up the always late soldier and had found him sweaty, coughing and almost unresponsive.

They had all hoped this was one of the situations where they could count on Nurse Donut, but when the pink soldier came within a close range of the sick soldier, he had come up with some poor excuse about spying on Blue Base or ordering new supplies or still wet nail paint or some shit. Frankly, Simmons did understand him.

Grif had somehow reached a whole new level of disgustingness. Simmons had thought that impossible, but now Grif’s nose was constantly running, his orange t-shirt was wet with sweat, and it was not like the lazy soldier would leave his bed to take a bath. Every time Simmons stepped into their shared room, he would wrinkle his nose. You could _smell_ the sickness.

And now Simmons had to be in the middle of it. With Donut running off, he was the only one to keep Grif from actually dying by dehydration, since there was no way Sarge or Lopez would lift a finger to help. Simmons had done his job while keeping a distance; throwing Grif rolls of paper towels, quickly placing a glass of water on his night table before immediately retreating back to the safe corners of the room, and bitching at the sick soldier until he finally stumbled out of bed to use the bathroom.

Okay, so Simmons had maybe become a little bit worried when he had brought Grif food and his coughing teammate had merely rolled over to lie on his side and moan into the wall. No appetite, apparently. While Simmons could appreciate Grif’s caution (Simmons would rather not clean up the vomit that could come from an upset stomach), it was just strangely _wrong_ to see his friend refusing food.

So the cyborg had left the dish in the kitchen, knowing he could heat it up later if Grif changed his mind. Not because the heat would do much to make their MRE’s taste better, but it was at least an attempt. Simmons had then tried to go to bed early, since Grif’s coughing had kept him up the entire night, and he had even changed to the maroon pajamas pants he was using as nightwear. But Grif’s loud suffering had made the cyborg unable to close his eyes with good conscience.

Deciding that he could just as well spend his time on something useful, he was now sitting at the desk that had on purpose been pushed into the corner of the room as Simmons tried his best to keep a safe distance from the germs Grif was coughing up.

But it was getting increasingly hard to write the usual reports (The attack on Blue Base: unsuccessful. Collateral damage: Grif’s pride. Upcoming strategy: try harder.) with Grif’s restlessness becoming more and more extreme. Simmons could hear Grif’s bed creak as the sick soldier rolled over to lie in a different position for the third time within a minute. The cyborg was not sure if the furniture was groaning more and more under the pressure, or if he was just becoming more aware of the sound.

“Are you trying to break your bed?” he asked dryly, not removing his glance from his papers.

He could hear the sick soldier shift over again. “No. M’bed is m’happy place,” Grif croaked out, sniffling.

“You sure sound happy.”

“M’dying.” He coughed, and Simmons was not entirely sure if he was faking it.

“No, you’re not,” Simmons replied. “You’re having the flu.” And he was sure of this. He had looked up the symptoms earlier this morning, just to be sure Grif was not suffering from some complications with the transplanted organs or something. Wouldn’t want to find the lazy idiot dead in his bed one day. Too much paper work to fill out, you know.

“M’feel like I’m dying,” Grif muttered and turned over again. The bed was an even more unmade mess than it usually was. The progression was almost fascinating.

“That’s because you like to whine about it.” Finally Simmons gave up on the reports, and instead he turned around on his chair to stare at the sweating shape lying huddled up on top of a stained and wrinkled blanket. He sighed. “Go to sleep, Grif.”

It felt unreal to say the words out loud. But Grif’s fever was a pain in the ass for the both of them. It kept the sick soldier up with restlessness, and an awake Grif meant an annoyed Simmons who would have to put up with the whining.

“Can’t,” Grif groaned, now lying on his stomach to rub his face against the already gross pillow. If Grif was not sick now, he would certainly become it after having his mouth near that nest of bacteria.

Simmons knew that Grif was telling the truth. The lazy soldier had been allowed to stay in his bed since yesterday (mainly because he had simply collapsed when Sarge had ordered him to get up. Grif would not be much help whether he was lying on the ground or on his bed, so Sarge had let him be, hoping this was just the nature’s process of removing Grif from this world) and he had not seemed to be able to fall asleep yet. This was all unnerving since a normal Grif would take this giant opportunity to nap.

“Okay, try closing your eyes and take deep breaths.”

“M’not giving birth,” Grif groaning, inching closer and closer to the edge of the bed. If he fell off by accident, Simmons was not going to help him back up.

“You’ll feel better after a nap,” Simmons offered, as if trying to convince a child. He knew it would be the best cure – sleep off the sickness. It should not be this hard.

Grif might have been trying to tell him something, probably insult him, but it was drowned out by a cough and the pillow that he was pressing his face against.

“Okay, that’s it.” Simmons left his chair to hover above his bedridden friend. Opening one eye into a slit, Grif glared back at him. The fever made his eye look slightly glazed. “I’ll get you some sleeping pills. I can’t get anything done with you shuffling around in the background.”

“M’hot.”

“I know,” Simmons replied, letting his annoyance show since this was the _hundredth fucking time_ Grif had told him this.

“Help meh, Siii-“ His name was caught off by a cough. “-mons.”

“I am. I am knocking you the fuck out.” Simmons stopped in the middle of taking a step as he realized just how bizarre this was. He was giving Grif sleeping pills. Grif. The one person in the world who could fall asleep in the middle of a gunfight. Standing in the doorway, he looked over his shoulder to say, “This has to be humiliating for you. Didn’t you call yourself the King of Naps?”

“Fuck you.” See, that came out clear enough.

The base was strangely quiet whenever Grif wasn’t coughing. Sarge and Donut had to be outside, probably patrolling the base while in reality getting as far away from Grif’s germs as possible. Simmons did not see any of them as he walked to the other end of their home. The evening air felt warm against his exposed torso, at least the parts that still had skin. It was a warm day in the canyon, and it did not help with Grif’s fever. The only way to get him to shut up was to make him unconscious.

Simmons should have known better than to think this would be an easy solution. He searched through their entire medicine cabinet and through every med kit. He opened all the empty glasses just to be sure (how typical of Grif just to leave them lying around, even when he had emptied them)and found nothing.

They had even run out of painkillers. They had all been used after their double surgeries, and of course they had not received any in their next supply drop-off. In fact, the only pills they had in stock were Donut’s vitamin pills. Something about their lack of sunshine due to their armor and it was also supposedly going to do wonders to your hair. Simmons squinted as he tried to read the small letters on the glass.

Well, Grif’s hair was a rat’s nest so it couldn’t hurt. Besides, Simmons knew of the Placebo effect. Feed a patient some fake pills, tell them they will make them feel better, and they will heal from the belief alone. Give Grif the pills, tell him they’ll make him fall asleep, and Simmons would be hearing snores in no time.

Hopefully.

But it was worth the try, otherwise Simmons would merely have to take up Sarge’s offer of sending the orange soldier into dreamland with the butt of his shotgun. Bringing along a glass of water, Simmons stepped into the bedroom again and tried to sound as joyful as possible, “Hey, Grif! I found these – they’ll make you sleepy in no time. Yep. _No time_.”

The lazy soldier had somehow managed to turn himself around, so his face was now in the foot of the bed. He barely moved when Simmons returned, but he did call out, “M’hot.”

“ _I know_ , Grif.”

“M’tired.”

“Apparently not enough,” Simmons said bitterly. As he towered above his fallen friend, he reached down to poke his shoulder. The skin felt hot, even by the brief touch. “C’mon. You have to swallow these with water.”

Grif immediately started to complain, but his words were so muffled that all Simmons heard was a string of murmurs and then in the end a distasteful “nurse”.

When Grif seemed to have given up on life, Simmons sighed and placed the water and pills on the night table. He then leaned down to grasp his friend’s shoulder in order to pull him upright. “It’s not that hard, Grif.”

The moment his palm made contact, something weird happened. First Grif’s entire body stiffened, then after a couple of seconds his muscles relax, and exclaimed in a weak voice, “Cold.” Which was very strange to hear after all the complaints about the warmth the entire day.

It took a couple of seconds before Simmons realized what he was talking about.

And when he did, it was all too late.

“Well, that’s just my metal paaar-“ His explanation ended in a yelp when Grif suddenly latched onto him and pulled him down in the bed so they both were resting their backs against the wall. Simmons was about to ask why Grif suddenly wanted to share his so-called happy place when he noticed that Grif was still keeping a tight grip on him.

In fact, he was coming closer.

Simmons widened his eyes in terror as Grif snuggled against his left side of the body, cooling off his hot skin against the cyborg limbs. “No, Grif, no no no no no no…” The sick soldier merely pressed his face against Simmons’ collarbone. The cyborg could feel his breath against his neck. “Bad, Grif, bad!”

But Grif was holding him down, basically lying on top of him. Well, the left side of him. Grif was even slightly curled together, trying press as much skin against the metal as possible. “What the fuck, Grif?! You can’t-“

Apparently, he could.

Simmons had not even finished his sentence when he felt Grif’s tense muscles relax as he took in a deep breath. And then he fell asleep. It took him less than two seconds.

Looking at the ceiling in defeat, Simmons wondered just how he had ended in this situation.

Well, actually, that was pretty easy to answer. It was because of Grif. This was Grif’s fault. It was Grif who had decided to use Simmons instead of just putting a wet washcloth on his forehead. Simmons should just have given Grif his rifle and let him snuggle with that.

Not that they were currently snuggling. Not like that. Okay, so maybe Grif was snuggling. But Simmons was just a victim. The snuggling was forced upon him. This was not by his own choice. It was obviously not enjoyable to have a sweaty, smelling, warm Grif on top of you.

Simmons would have pushed him off. If he could. But Grif was heavy. Everyone knew that.

His cyborg parts did not stretch far enough to make enough space for Grif’s left hand, so instead it was draped around Simmons’ entire torso. Simmons was hopelessly stuck.

Of course he could just try to shake him off by force. But that would cause Grif to wake up, and honestly, the lack of moaning and bitching was kinda nice. And Grif needed to sleep in order to get well, and the quicker the sickness would leave his body, the quicker Grif could go down on his normal level of annoyance.

And Simmons… Simmons could endure this. It would probably just be a couple of hours before Grif would open his eyes again, and when that happened, Simmons could shrug him off and get in his own bed.

It was unnerving to have Grif’s face so close to his own. That running nose was a big threat to Simmons’ health.  It was probably not even worth it.

Grif was going to owe him for this. Though, Simmons could not honestly come up with any way Grif would repay him. There were plenty of ways he _could_ repay him. Grif would just never pull himself together and actually do it. Simmons was unable to imagine Grif doing the report for once, or doing the dishes, or taking care of the laundry, or take an extra patrol for Simmons.

If he was lucky, Grif would throw a wet washcloth in the cyborg’s face when he became sick. Which was bound to happen with the way Grif’s face was pressed against him. He would have to shower himself with boiling water later in order to kill all the germs.

Grif’s steady breathing was contagious, and Simmons realized with horror that his own eyelids were growing heavy. He could _not_ fall asleep now.

He could not fall asleep, because when Donut would go his usual trip around the base to say goodnight to everyone he would see this… this… this _weird_ sight. And he would take a picture. And he would adore it.

Simmons could not let that happen.

Squirming as quietly as possible, Simmons tried to let himself fall off the edge of the bed. He only managed to get an inch away before Grif moved in sleep to tighten his grip on the cyborg. It was like trying to remove a teddy from a child.

Simmons could not wake up Grif – that would mean another sleepless night with Grif’s coughing and complaints.

And Simmons was so tired – Grif had kept him up all night, and they really both deserved some rest, but Donut would come and…

* * *

Simmons woke up to a horrible sound.

_“Good morning!”_

The cyborg’s eyes snapped open in horror. Turning his head in a frantic movement, he stared directly into Donut’s face that seemed just as happy as his voice. The youngest soldier was practically gleaming.

“Donut!” Simmons shrieked and in his attempt to get away from the scene that _really wasn’t what it looked like_ he fell off the bed, dragging Grif along with him.

It was first a couple of seconds _after_ they had hit the floor that Grif opened his eyes. “Wha… Fuck off, Donut, I’m taking another sick leave.” His voice did not sound as hoarse as yesterday, at least.

“Oh, I’m sure Simmons wouldn’t mind playing nurse one more day. I still have that nurse uniform if you want to borrow it.”

“ _No_! Donut, uh, this isn’t… Grif, get the fuck off me!” With a final push, he managed to shove the heavier man’s body off him. Grif rolled around, finally coming to a stop in a position where he was lying in his side, staring at Simmons who was brushing dust off himself.

As the cyborg crawled to his knees, Grif blinked a couple of times, but finally came to the conclusion that this was not worth being awake for, and he closed his eyes again.

“Donut, don’t freak out!”

“Simmons, you know me – how could I complain about two guys cuddling?”

“I didn’t mean that kind of freak out. I meant your kind of freak out, and –“

The pink soldier put his hands on his hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Simmons tried, “I… Well… uh…” And then he gave up. “Please don’t tell Sarge,” he said in a defeated voice, knowing Donut would definitely not tell the story where Simmons had been forced by Grif to stay in this position and it was by no means Simmons’ own choice. Donut would tell the story in his own way, and he would make it weird, and then Sarge would think Grif’s… grifness had rubbed off on Simmons.

“Don’t you worry: I’m not going to _tell_ Sarge. Nothing like good old-fashioned forbidden romance.”

“It’s not…” But Donut had already disappeared from the room, and Simmons let his hand fall in defeat. After staring at the now empty doorway, he turned to Grif who was still curled up on the floor. “What the fuck, Grif?!”

One eye was opened into a slit. “What?”

“You know. This. _That_.” Simmons pointed at the messy bed.

The right corner of Grif’s mouth was lifted into a sly smile. “What a question, dude. If I didn’t know better, I would say you took advantage of me.”

“ _WHAT_?!”

Both of Grif’s eyes were now open, one brown and one green. “Yeah. If you were cold, just take a fucking blanket. Don’t take it out on a sick guy.”

“Wha- Grif, you know that’s not true! You were the one to-“

Simmons had raised his voice by this point, and Grif, still lying on his back, held up his hands as if trying to protect his face. “Woah, calm down, Simmons. Just _cool down_.”

Understanding the pun, Simmons crossed his arms. “That’s not even funny.”

Grif raised an eyebrow. “Just _chill_.”

“ _Grif_!”

“What?”

They stared at each other for some seconds, but then it felt weird, and Simmons had to lower his glance. “Just… At least tell me you feel better now?”

Grif’s face turned thoughtful, which was never a good sign. “Depends… Do I have to go on patrol if I say yes?”

Groaning, Simmons stretched out his back. His entire body felt stiff after spending the night in an awkward position. Another reason never to do this again. “Ugh, you’re hopeless. Next time I’ll just let you hug the floor.”

“Fine. Then you’re getting a blanket for your birthday.”

While that was strangely comforting since it hinted that Grif was actually going to remember his birthday this time, Simmons still had to say, “I wasn’t cold! And like you wouldn’t just steal it for yourself once you’d given me the gift.”

“Then you’d just have to come to my bed to get warm,” Grif said, yawning, and rolled over to lie on his other side.

Simmons froze, cheeks burning, and wondered just how to respond to a statement like that.

In the end, he didn’t.

Turning his head away so he could not see Grif’s smirk, Simmons looked at the messy bed instead. He would have to deal with that too, since he doubted that Grif even knew how to wash his bedsheets. “Take a bath. You smell. More than usual.”

“Geez, you’re grumpy in the morning.”

“IT’S 11.05 AM, GRIF!”

“And Sarge hasn’t shot us yet? Huh, strange day.” Finally, the lazy soldier was beginning to push himself off the floor. Simmons could not help but notice that there were no dark rings under his eyes anymore and he was no longer sweating buckets. Definitely looking better than yesterday.

Simmons had been right: sleep had helped.

Of course he had been right.

“Well, he’s probably going to send you to Blue Base to cough on them before your last germs die.” The cyborg wrinkled his nose. “That’s if you haven’t coughed them all up on me last night.”

“Way to bitch about it, Simmons. You could just have left.”

As if Grif could talk about the situation. He had been delirious by fever. Probably. “Well, you’re so fucking fat that I couldn’t move! And I tried because if Donut walked in he would – Oh god, Donut!”

Grif frowned, his black eyebrows almost touching. “Hey, if you’re saying Donut was in the bed too, you’re the one making it weird.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Simmons shrieked, falling over his own legs as he tried to rush out of the room to catch up with the pink soldier. “Donut, did you take a fucking photo?!”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I know you would! So is that a yes? Donut, are you saying yes? Or no? Is that a no? Donut!”

* * *

When no photo was hung up on their refrigerator, Simmons took it as a no. Maybe, surprisingly as it was, Donut had some sense of privacy.

Or so Simmons thought until he was send on patrol and Tucker came rushing at him. Since the Blue was unarmed, Simmons figured he wasn’t going to attack, and the cyborg lowered his rifle.

“Hey, Simmons!” Tucker came to a halt, panting slightly. His helmet hid his expression. “You like computer and stuff, right?”

It was still suspicious. You know, since he was a Blue. And since no one ever came for a friendly chat about computers. And the word _stuff_ was suspicious in its own way.

Simmons narrowed his eyes. “For the last time, I’m not helping you download those kinds of movies, Tucker. Just stick with borrowing Grif’s magazines.”

“Oh, it’s not that.”

Oh no.

Tucker continued, the smirk evident in his voice, “It’s much better.”

Please no.

Gulping hard, Simmons asked, almost afraid of the answer, “What?”

“I just wanted to show you my new desktop background.”

_Donut!_

“Tucker, I’ll pay you.”

“No way, dude, this is priceless.”

“I’ll… I’ll steal Grif’s magazines for you.”

“Still not better than this.”

“Now you’re just making it weird.”

“You both look so peaceful in your sleep.”

“Argh! Delete it, please.”

“You sound so desperate.”

“What do you want?”

“A sniper rifle.”

“Wha- _No._ I can’t do that! Sarge will kill me.”

“Next time, ask Grif to remove his shirt as well.”

“I hate you all so much.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first RvB fic without the tag “angst”. This is… is this fluff? It’s such a warm feeling inside your chest, and no one is dead or hurt and it’s weird… Am I becoming soft? What is this? *Ria’s existential crisis*
> 
> I have a ridiculous amount of half-finished one-shots, so don’t be surprised of more of these suddenly pop up from out of nowhere.  
> Inspired by the way I’m a complete crybaby when I have a fever. I dealt with my surgeries better than having fever. And I’m the type that’ll text my friends “I’m dying” to share my misery. And then press myself against the wall since it’s cold.
> 
> Christmas is celebrated tomorrow (the 24nd) here in Denmark, so consider this a holiday present. Glædelig jul!
> 
> So enjoy all the fluff! (inner Ria: it won’t last…)
> 
> General info note: English is not my native language, and I apologize for the grammar mistakes that I didn’t catch. Also, I am horrible at spotting typos, so please forgive me.  
> Also; wanna prompt me, see my random RvB doodles and musings, as well as very small grimmons ficlets and my weird thoughts in general? I’m riathedreamer on tumblr. More info on my AO3 profile.


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